


Oedipus Rex Is Not A Good Name For A Dog

by Manna_di_San_Nicola



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Insecurity, Intersexuality, Knotting, M/M, Mpreg, Parent/Child Incest, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Love, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manna_di_San_Nicola/pseuds/Manna_di_San_Nicola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki finds himself weary of courtly intrigue and the competition for their father’s approval Thor doesn’t even realize they’re in. To unwind, he visits the most uncomplicated of his children…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oedipus Rex Is Not A Good Name For A Dog

**Author's Note:**

> I think I wrote this because, for better or worse, I wanted to read it or something like it. This takes place, ballpark, roughly a month before the events of Thor. As an amusing side-note, I wrote this picturing Joe Manganiello as Fenrir, but please feel free to picture anyone you wish, werewolf-affiliated or otherwise. Especially if that anyone is Lucy Liu. 
> 
> WARNINGS (Trigger and otherwise): Ninety-percent consensual sex between a parent and a child, insinuations of sex between adoptive siblings (even if they don’t yet know they’re adoptive), allusions to Thor and The Avengers and Norse mythology and the comics the aforementioned movies were based on, mentioned slut shaming on the part of Asgardians, faux antiquated language (cunny, an aggressive avoidance of contractions), cannibalism and world domination and Mpreg as dirty talk, standard disclaimer to not trust anything Loki says or thinks (his children are not poor persecuted woobies; his insecurity is tragic, but no one is as tragic as Loki thinks he is; et cetera), knotting, werewolves (after a fashion?), porn without plot that is still depressingly non-porny, and a kind of bittersweet ending I didn’t really see coming. I feel terrifyingly certain that I am missing some; please inform me if this is the case.

It was rare for Loki to find opportunity to slip away and visit his children. There had been so many questions when he had tried to do so openly, petitioning the King on bended knee as if being his son would sway the Allfather to his cause. Why should he _want_ to visit them, the criminals, the exiled monsters? His brother and the merry band that followed him were the worst of the lot; they were _heroes_ , after all, and understood the darker things of the worlds solely in relation to how best to kill them. Even his mother, whose eyes had glimmered with a sympathy of sorts, had advised that he abandon his three first-borns and satiate his more maternal impulses with Sleipnir.

Poor dull Sleipnir; what care did he need, barely smarter than the horse that sired him and a thousand times more noble, what care did he need compared to his siblings and the flawed hearts they had been cursed to inherit from him? It was easy to favour the perfect child, Loki knew, but he never would; he had been the one left cold and watching that child be favoured.

And so, when he could, Loki took moments such as these, using bridges less stable than the Bifrost to make his way to the prisons fashioned for each criminal, the cradles his father had so lovingly crafted for his bastard grandchildren. Hela, his youngest and only girl, gilded her cage most masterfully; blessed as she was by Lady Death and having inherited his own arcane potential, becoming queen of Niflheim (the only boogeyman even the warriors of Asgard could not best) was a task executed with ease. His sons had none of her luck. None of the nine worlds had an ocean large enough to accommodate Jormungand (his middle son) except Midgard, but he was so massive that the displacement of water would have flooded every land there, and so the greatest sorcerers of Asgard (save Loki, obviously) enchanted him into little more than water himself and left the ghostly serpent to coil at the bottom of the sea.

To visit him too frequently was painful, as much for his inability to hold a water-breathing charm indefinitely as for the anguish of watching his fingers pass through nothingness when he tried to hold his son.

And here, right in front of him, was Fenrir’s cell. There were no guards, for none were needed; a simple ribbon was his guard, an enchantment wrapped around his front paw that held him in place more firmly than any prison bars could the second he attempted to leave the cave. What a year that had been; the finest blacksmiths produced the finest chains and, in the end, the only one that did not yield was magic. Loki would have never let Thor live the triumph of his ‘trickery’ down if he had not been occupied by watching his son frantically gnash and struggle for freedom.

Loki did not say a word to call Fenrir to him or inform him of his presence, but rolled his wrist to conquer a blast of air. The gale whipped the strands of his hair forward and tickled his face as it disappeared into the cavern’s mouth. In seconds, he knew his son had caught his scent on the wind; the ground beneath him began quaking from the footsteps.

Loki moved towards the noise without fear; what mother could dread his own babe?

He heard the scratch of gigantic claws against the dirt, the gusts almost as powerful as the one his magic had conjured produced by every exhale. A low growl echoed from the dark and then… silence. Such a flair for the dramatic – he must have inherited it from his father. He tapped his foot with impatience.

From the shadow, a nude man emerged, strutting without modesty. His yellow eyes crinkled from the wide baring of his teeth he seemed to be trying to pass off as a smile. “Hello, Mother.”

Unlike Loki, Fenrir had always seemed tragically limited in his talent for form manipulation, only having the options of the gargantuan beast that could barely be called a wolf he had been born as and this… wild man shape that resembled _him_ not a whit with his excesses of hair where Loki was smooth and the muscles of a warrior who would never deign to utter a spell. ‘So rugged,’ he had teased his son in the earliest days, before the deaths, before the binding, ‘sure to break a thousand hearts.’ Break, eat, how could he have known which would come to pass?

“To what do I owe the honour of your visit?” Fenrir held up the hand Gleipnir was tied around. “No, allow me a guess: my beloved grandfather has passed on, you are sovereign of Asgard, and I am to be freed and pampered as the prince I am.” The harshness of the laugh he let loose, more than his still remaining claws or fangs, showed his canid truth.

Loki raised his shoulders and let them fall. “Enjoy your jest, dear pup, while it is a jest.” His children were so varied; it was strange how unified they were in their disdain for his endeavours to prove himself worthy of the throne.

Fenrir cocked his head to the side, a move so like when he had been young it nearly made Loki laugh. “Is there a _scheme_ to be had, Mother? Are you plotting?” The contrast between how his son and his brother could ask the same thing, one gleeful and proud, one reproachful, was fantastic. It sounded odd, he knew, but it baffled him sometimes to consider that Thor was his children’s uncle and that they indeed shared blood with him. “Oh, come, do share. The ploys you hatch are the only siblings I get to see.”

“No ploy, my bloodthirsty child, no plot. I intend nothing more than a single unpleasantness. The rest will prove who should truly be king without any aid from myself.” Loki sighed. “But I have come to you to escape schemes. If you do not take issue, I wish to sit with my son a while in peace and know there is one in the nine realms who does not wish me an entirely different person in the same breath as he professes love for me.”

Fenrir stepped forward, so close that he seemed to inhale Loki’s every breath as it emerged. His hands trailed down Loki’s arms; how it would shock the matrons of Asgard in his mother’s weaving circles to see the Fenris Wolf handle anyone so delicately. “Poor Mother…” His son pulled his fang-filled mouth into a mockery of a frown. “I love you for exactly who you are. The dam of nightmares, who lies with lowly beasts and, from their base sperm, makes the killers of gods….” Fenrir’s breathing grew heavier. “The witch those brave men of Asgard despise for the ease with which you could turn their swords and their pricks to dust and _then_ what would they stick in you…” The hands around his arms clenched with all the power Fenrir had put into chewing off Tyr’s hand and slammed him into a nearby wall, the entirety of his son’s body pressed against him, holding him firm against the stone. “The liar who deceives like breathing even when he says he wishes a reprieve from schemes… I _know_ what you came here for, I _know_ what peace you seek from me.”

Loki kept his gaze firm, even as his eyes wanted to flutter closed at the feel of a body against his own. He was the dam of nightmares, as Fenrir said; he had neither the time nor the inclination to comport himself as a vacuous princess about to lose her maidenhead. “Well, then? I am your mother and you love me…Would it be such anguish to give me what I need that you grope about for time thusly?”

“Anguish? Fie. An honour and a paradise await me.” Fenrir’s face twisted itself into a smug smile. “But I am naught but an animal, Mother. To misstep would be an easy thing. How am I to know what you want…” His grip on Loki did not falter for a second as he pushed himself upward, so close that it was now Loki inhaling his every sigh. “… unless you ask for it?”

‘Ask’, he said. And the pup had the cheek to brand _Loki_ deceiver. But he supposed the ties of family did bind both ways; what was motherhood if not giving one’s child what he wanted? He lifted his legs, wrapping them around Fenrir’s muscled torso. “Please, darling boy… _show_ me you love me. Show me what it is to be honoured. Fuck me, my Fenrir.”

Fenrir’s rough tongue forced itself past the lips that had lavished maternal kisses on his face as a babe, retreating only when he found himself wanting to bite Loki’s mouth instead of ravage. Loki knew, more than most in Asgard, what the fangs that nibbled at his lips had the power to do; he had seen them snap bone and rend flesh for a treat and that they spared him made Loki feel heady with power. He felt the iron grip loosen, slid slowly down the wall until his feet again touched ground once he removed them from Fenrir’s flanks.

Long claws came to the clasp at his throat; he had felt more imperilled having Fandral’s blade poised to pierce his jugular in sparring. “All these _clothes_.” Volstagg, deeper into his cups than any Asgardian before him, had never made a curse sound so foul. “To what end? They protect…” Fenrir tore the coat open, shredding the fabric from neck to navel. “… _nothing_. Would this kerchief,” he dragged a claw up Loki’s shirt, cutting through the ties, leaving Loki bare, “have stopped my claw if I meant to tear out your heart?”

“Tread carefully, beloved child.” Loki lifted the arm Fenrir no longer restrained and slowly, trust meant little if one was startled holding a blade so close to vital organs, brushed away coat and shirt from his shoulders. “If you speak so fervently of my being in danger, I may find myself believing you wish me safe from it.”

Fenrir lunged at the new flesh, teeth and tongue dancing upon Loki’s throat, his collar, his shoulders. “But, Mother, of course I care…” The words were huffed out betwixt each marking bite, almost lost for none but his skin to hear. “… if you died…” With an obscene smacking noise, he pulled away from his last claim to smirk, “… what would I have to rut against but rocks?”

“Such sweet nothings; and I had been so concerned that you had inherited none of my charm.” Even as his son spoke of rutting, Loki could feel the heat of his cock rubbing against his leg, soiling his trousers. Weary of having to maneuver his disrobing around Fenrir’s groping, he murmured a spell to undo his bothersome ties and drop the suddenly offensive garments (how quickly he had come around to his son’s school of thought), hiding the incantation by leaning forward to nuzzle Fenrir’s neck.

Fenrir mirrored him, taking in his scent even if Loki imagined little of it could be found under the saliva he had drowned his neck in. Finally, he released Loki’s second arm and let the now-free hand trail down his back. Loki knew his intent in seconds; there were few reasons Fenrir would have need of a human hand with its dull fingers. He smiled as he felt one enter him, enjoying the satisfaction of an accurate prediction as much as the preparation for larger fare.

“Your charms I may lack, Mother, but not your mind.” While the left hand endeavoured to make (to be delicate) his feminine aspects come alive, Fenrir’s right hand ghosted a path over Loki’s stomach to take firm grip of his male vulnerability. Loki smiled around the hitch in his breath; it was a rare courtesy for his lovers to acknowledge both sets of genitalia. Fenrir’s father had certainly not been so giving. “Am I the first to strike upon it? I must be… The warriors of Asgard may think with their cocks, but to realize their cocks are the one thing to stop _you_ thinking is still beyond them.”

Loki finally allowed his eyes to shut, torn between the options of rocking forward into one hand or working himself backward onto the other. “Not…” Composure was proving something of an issue. As was catching his breath. “… Not _all_ their cocks, dear…” He wrapped his blissfully free arms around Fenrir’s neck. “Mm, some of them can barely use the sword _not_ between their legs…” He snarled as though he were the wolf when Fenrir’s finger agonizingly _nearly_ brushed that glorious spot within his cunny. 

“Well, I know honourable Tyr would have quite the time trying to pleasure you like this.” He laughed that cruel bark as he twisted his wrist so perfectly around the shaft of Loki’s cock, no doubt enjoying the memory of Tyr’s screams as much as the husky breaths Loki was releasing. “How many of those stalwart heroes _have_ you graced with this honour, darling Mother? Surely, there must have been at least one fool enough to try and persuade you into the bed of a ‘real man’ rather than a monster.”

Loki rolled his eyes. Oh, the times he had had _that_ brilliant slice of rhetoric thrown at him as though it would make him swoon. “I have lain with enough men for all I have not to brand me a whore. And, yet, all too many of those men still claim to have lain with me besides. Monsters, at least, have none to boast to.” He shuddered out a breath as Fenrir thrust in another finger.

“And Uncle Thor?”

“You know _he_ has plenty to boast to.”

“You know that was not my meaning.”

It was madness, but there was a split second where Loki wished to fall into the old and easy lie of insult, of outrage that anyone could insinuate such a thing about him and his brother, even with his cock in the hand of his son. “As long as he is favoured son, lying with Thor is a back-up plan only, a desperate contingency that makes me his equal in status even if he would never respect me again. Still, I imagine Father would prefer me as queen to Amora.” He chuckled as if the jest were amusing. “When I am heir, he will finally see more than a follower in me. And I shall be free to want whomever I please without whispers about my _intentions_.”

Rolling his eyes, Fenrir moved his hands once more to Loki’s arms, lifted him into the air, and brought his mother down onto his cock. “So much _bother_. You are the Liesmith, the Mother of Monsters! You are the better of Thor, not equal! If you want the throne, slit the old man’s throat and sit upon it! If you want Thor, trap him in a spell and milk him for a stud! People the castle with golden-haired brats and train them to kill your naysayers!” His eyes began to glow in his fervour as he thrusted, fangs and claws growing sharper and sharper.

Composure was a beast long gone from Loki, barely able to inhale and exhale between the moans, the whines, the humiliating whimpers. Oh, it had been much too long since he had allowed himself fucked like this. Loki was quick to feel too warm, but this fire was perfection. “But…” He let out a gasp, cutting himself off. “… but I _cannot_. I am so weak, so bound by my need. Oh, my love, my Fenrir, you know best of all… You know what I need…” His son would never resist such a goad.

Fenrir rolled his hips, surely only seconds from being capable of nothing but mindless humping. “I will kill the old man _for_ you, then, sweet Mother.” And, oh, the very thought sickened and thrilled him, the devotion so intoxicating, the taboo of patricide so appalling. “And fuck this paradise between your legs until you swell with children more terrifying than any before them: a sea of wolves, every one so large as to reach up to the skies and devour the very Sun and Moon. With such an army at your command, every world will know to fear you; even the Jotunn will bow as they never did to Odin. I will give you every branch of Yggdrasil for your crown.”

One would think, with the jolts of lightning (do _not_ think of Thor) Fenrir sent through him every time his cock thrust in and pressed that specific button, Loki would barely hear his words. Hardly so. He found himself soaking up the fantasies as though they were nutrients added to a bath; he _would_ rather like an army, actually, and it hardly made him aberrant in Asgard to crave the honour of being feared by the Jotunn.

Fenrir had joined him in the state beyond words, barely capable of the snarls and snorts as he pounded in and out with all the force of a blacksmith’s hammer. It could not be long before he would be pulsing his seed into Loki and then the true delight would begin. Oh, his precious child had done excellent well at the task Loki had bestowed upon him, do not mistake him, but it had been a long time since he had enjoyed the singularly _unique_ sensation known as a knot. And Fenrir was only rendered incapable of holding back that particular canid aspect by climax.

The unforgiving hips that had rocked so relentless into him pushed forward one final time, liquid gushing from Fenrir’s cock deep into Loki. Gracious, so much already from merely the first pulse. He certainly did intend to make him swell, didn’t he? And… _ah_ , speaking of swelling… The growing bulb within his cunny pushed out so delightfully, filled him almost to his limits, and he absurdly wanted to spread his legs further to try and relieve the pressure even as he wanted it to never end. But then, he thought with a smirk as he wrapped his hand around his own cock to continue what Fenrir had ceased, he was accustomed to a life of contradiction.

“Perfect…” How kind of his son to give approval of his masturbating himself. “… Make a mess of yourself for once, Mother; let go of your flawless control.” Speaking of messes, Fenrir’s own continued to fountain within Loki. How thankful he was that he had incanted himself against the possibility of any of that seed being successfully planted; the ‘sea of wolves’ Fenrir had panted of seemed all too close for comfort.

Loki rolled his hips, thrusting upwards into his own fingers and relishing the way Fenrir’s knot dragged against his insides. Again, it could not be long. The sweet fire built up in his nethers, waiting to rush forward… _There_. Loki did not disappoint his son; even Volstagg knocking over a full goblet could not have left him as coated in mess as his own fluids did.

Fenrir trailed two claws through the viscous evidence of his _lack_ of flawless control and brought them to his own lips, licking away every trace of semen. “Do I _taste_ like paradise as well?”

“Sweet, to be sure, but a hollow echo of what your heart and flesh would taste like. No matter - I can feast upon anyone. I have but one mother.”

Loki chuckled. “Such devotion; how it warms the heart to know I am a maternal success.” He brought his head forward to rest again on Fenrir’s shoulder. “… I miss you all so terribly.” He shifted to look into his son’s eyes. “Things _shall_ be different when I take the throne. I swear it.”

Fenrir sighed and deliberately caressed his mother’s cheek with the hand Gleipnir was tied around. “Ah, sweet Mother, now you have reached the zenith of your talents: you can even lie to yourself.”


End file.
